


"Belonging"

by helenkacan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Caring, Community: lgbtfest, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, M/M, Musical References, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenkacan/pseuds/helenkacan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 3156:  Stargate Atlantis; Ronon Dex/Rodney McKay.<br/>By accident, Rodney learns that Ronon is having problems going beyond the kissing stage when dating women.  After seven years as a Runner, he had ruthlessly suppressed his physical desire in order to survive.  Rodney wants to help his friend and offers to teach him to enjoy his body again.  When Ronon decides he is ready to try being with a woman, he realizes that his body already knows whom he really wants.</p><p>Summary:  The Pegasus galaxy had changed Rodney.  Yes, he'd done the selfless thing when Jeannie had been kidnapped, but that was because she was his sister and, yes, he loved her.  He didn't expect to feel this generous again – so soon anyway - and compelled to offer to help Ronon with his <i>problem</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Belonging"

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: None. Really. Well, okay, some swears. A tiny flash of undescribed nudity.  
> Author's Note: This is my first-ever McDex. The prompt called out to me (isn't that the best kind). If you need any convincing, just recall the screencap of Rodney hugging Ronon as he heals the scars from the Wraith tracking device.  
> Bonus sequel: [Odd Man Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1984629), from John Sheppard's POV.

It had never been Rodney's intention to eavesdrop on the gaggle of women, both civilian and military, in front of him as they were lined up, trays in hand, waiting to be served lunch. He'd always hated gossip. Besides, if there were anything worth knowing, he knew Chuck would tell him. There were times when it paid off to have solidarity with the Canadian who seemed to have his ear on everything.

Or else he could hack into any records at will, if he were so inclined. Which he wasn't. Just for the record. If he knew – and this was not to be considered an admission - about the secret poker game in Lorne's quarters, well, he'd only told Sheppard about it the once. Who'd finagled his way into an official invitation. And, then, shared his winnings with Rodney.

But the five women before him were blocking his way while they debated the merits of having not-chicken or pasta. He didn't know what the problem was; he would have just gotten both.

As he shoved his way impatiently through them, while taking his own advice (yes to roast not-chicken and definitely yes to pasta, with extra sauce, thank you very much), he overheard the tail end of one conversation. That gate-tech – yes, the one who wasn't Chuck – was yammering on about something about kissing. Or not kissing. Or not moving past the kissing. Or not kissing at all.

To Rodney, it seemed like the most circular - meaning utterly pointless and useless - discussion because there didn't appear to be any direction to the monologue. He wondered who it could be that not-Chuck-tech (he remembered too late, after he'd already given her that unwieldy designation, that her name was Amelia) was describing. The last he'd remembered, when Atlantis had landed on Earth, was seeing her hanging around with Ronon. But, then, thinking back to his own situation, being on Earth and returning to Pegasus - for which he sighed in relief, despite its ever-increasing arsenal of ways to kill him - were two vastly different things.

For one, he'd broken it off with Jennifer. Ha! Well, that was the general air of triumphant superiority he was successful in adopting any time Jeannie tried to browbeat him about the failed relationship. Although, _technically_ , she hadn't seemed that upset when she heard about it and Rodney believed she only put up a token protest to keep up their long-standing sibling rivalry.

It had taken him a couple of months on Earth to realize that, even if it was _nice_ having a pretty blonde on his arm (and in his bed - or really hers - because of her insane schedule and her nightly primping routine and because she'd batted her eyes and who really fell for that stuff these days ... except that he obviously had), she was all wrong for him. It made Rodney feel better than imagining that _he_ could be all wrong for her. Whatever. In any case, he refuted the idea that a relationship one walked away from with a huge sigh of relief could be considered a failure.

But this wasn't about him. It was about some guy (at least he thought he had the gender right) _not_ kissing Amelia. Not that he really cared, but he wondered if she could really be talking about Ronon. As he didn't hear any names named – and he had no good reason to stand around when there was copious, delicious, hot food to be consumed – he walked away without learning anything about the man's identity.

To Rodney, it seemed inconceivable that the big guy would be having _any_ trouble kissing anyone, male or female. Just thinking about Ronon made Rodney just a tiny bit hot. Okay, okay, a _lot_ hot. Not that he was about to do anything about it.

It wasn't as if Rodney were afraid of being attracted to someone of the same sex. Because, hello, genius prodigy here. Though he'd missed out on traditional boy-girl dating having leaped over his woefully inadequate high school curriculum, when he got to university, he'd started out with girls. After he thought he'd gotten the hang of that (applying such necessary factors as friction and trajectory while trying not to get distracted by – ooh - breasts), he went after the boys in the frat house circuit. Because that was the one sure way of being able to get a beer while underage, even if it was the weak American imitation of what _real_ (aka Canadian) beer should taste like.

But it had been a few years since he'd been with a guy. There was that _thing_ with Pavel in Russia. Well, there had also been that thing with Mirushka, but right now he was just reminiscing about the guys he'd slept with.

Rodney mulled over the mystery (though he couldn't figure out exactly _why_ he cared enough to give it more than a momentary thought) for the remainder of the day before mentioning it casually to Sheppard when he came by the labs to drag him off to bed (well, obviously, to their respective individual beds) around 0200 hours. Sheppard proved to be so not helpful. Apart from continuing his morning runs with Ronon, John hadn't a clue as to what their teammate did on his own time. After all, it wasn't as if Rodney could imagine an in-depth conversation happening between Chewie and Han. Even more inconceivable if it were about their junk. Or anything wrong with it.

::~::~::

As misfortune would have it, Rodney was stuck once again the following day behind what appeared to be the same group of women, though Banks wasn't with them. Which seemed to make the situation worse. He couldn't help but overhear the really loud and persistent whispers. After he'd barrelled his way through them on his way to filling up on roast beast with gravy and potatoes (and reluctantly accepting a purple vegetable blob), he knew they were definitely gossipping about Amelia and Ronon.

Rodney refused to think about changing the time he hit the mess for lunch. At least that was one of the really good repercussions from having dated Jennifer: being forced to take a regular lunchtime and coming to appreciate it. But he didn't want to have to be stuck with constant updates about Ronon's inability to satisfy Amelia. Because what if he'd been the one who ... who _couldn't_ perform. Would he want word to get around the entire city? He could just imagine the snickering behind his back. Or, worse, to his face. This had to stop soon and he figured it might as well be his responsibility to help Ronon. As a friend. Really.

::~::~::

So Rodney spent more nights lying awake thinking about Ronon. Between being on the run and then on Atlantis, he'd lost more than a dozen years of experiencing intimacy. Rodney tried to put himself into the man's head, tried to imagine losing not only the woman he loved but also being a hunted and haunted survivor from a doomed world. With only a few others who had escaped. Survivors, Rodney grimaced in remembrance, who weren't always on the right side.

If that had been his own past, Rodney didn't think he'd be up for any kissing or much else, for that matter. He could imagine his libido shrinking down to nil as his whole existence contracted into no more than basic survival against the Wraith, trying to keep one gate jump ahead of them at all times.

If Rodney thought of the people he'd slept with casually, and knowing that they were now massacred, that would have been enough to make his dick go off-line for years. But to love someone – and to lose her along with nearly the entirety of the planet – would have been inconceivable, no matter that most Pegasus worlds' populations were puny when compared to Earth's. Even now, Rodney was careful not to let any memory of his nearly losing Jeannie disturb his mind ... well, except for the occasional nightmare.

He wasn't sure how Ronon managed to keep it all in. The two tents off-world weren't far apart, yet Rodney never heard Ronon thrashing about, caught in restless sleep. Maybe Teyla had forced him to drink some _special_ tea (which usually meant foul-tasting in Rodney's opinion) that helped calm him. Or maybe it was just Teyla's matter-of-fact presence that threatened bodily harm should her own sleep be interrupted.

Speaking of Teyla, Rodney could perhaps see why she had become pregnant with Kanaan's child. With culling a historical recurrence, it appeared to have provided a biological imperative to reproduce within the ranks of her people. Sometimes, Rodney wondered if she was truly happy, because Kanaan tended to stay in the background, taking care of TJ.

Rodney had had his own brush with survivor's guilt. And knowing about it wasn't in the same class as acknowledging psychotherapy with its usual mother-focused mumbo jumbo. As far as Rodney was concerned, Freud probably had had his own huge obsession for _his_ mother but had deflected it, transferring his diagnosis into a therapy inflicted onto gullible strangers. What a quack!

So Rodney concentrated on what he thought Ronon would need in order to – well, certainly not get over it, but – be able to appreciate life again, even if it no longer resembled the hopes and dreams he'd grown up with on Sateda.

And, then, he thought of how he would approach the man.

::~::~::

Things weren't exactly going according to plan. Ronon's expression had turned thunderous and he bristled with anger. Rodney knew he had to backtrack and try to salvage any shred of the unusual friendship the two men had built up over the years. But he was too aggravated and concerned about Ronon's well-being to modulate his sharp tone of voice.

"Oh, forget it. I just thought I could help but, if you're too proud to accept it, or find it demeaning to take anything like that from someone like me, well ... as I said, just forget I said anything." Rodney's flailing hands stopped in mid air. He spun about, ready to flee - though that would have meant running out of his own quarters - when a strong hand snagged his elbow, preventing him from moving away.

Ronon's voice was firm, but imbued with warmth. "McKay. Didn't say I was rejecting it. Just don't want your pity."

Rodney turned to face him, shaking off the hand that held him in place. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Can you really be that stupid? No, don't answer that. You're one of the bravest men I've ever met and even I don't think it's right that you should be so affected by something that was done to you for so many years by the Wraith. They effectively managed to strip every pleasure away while you were running so you could concentrate on just staying alive to amuse them. Even I know that's not living, not in any galaxy."

He sighed and his voice turned wistful. “I always wished I could have done more for you when I healed your scars from the tracking device. But there wasn't enough time.”

In a more subdued voice, he mumbled, “Besides, I think you're really hot.”

Damn, he'd actually said that out loud. Rodney took a big breath and glared at Ronon some more while stabbing his finger in the air. "You should know that I don't do pity. I also don't do 'nice'”. That last word got emphatic finger quotes. “Or diplomatic. Or sensitive. Especially not self-effacing. Jennifer tried to change me and, well, you don't see her around here, do you?"

Ronon shrugged. "Dunno. Could be your way of getting back at me because I was interested in her for a while."

Rodney released a long-suffering sigh. "Could you _please_ stop mentioning her. Besides, she blew her chances when she tried to play God with my brain. My absolutely brilliant one-of-a-kind mind. Wouldn't listen to you or Teyla, the experts on Pegasus because she was convinced that traditional medicine, aka voodoo, would find the cure. When that would be ... well, that wasn't important. Apparently, not to her. She would have waited until it was too late. And I would have been dead. All because she couldn't open her mind to the fact that this galaxy isn't anything like Earth.”

Rodney was startled by Ronon's embarrassed look. “What? You didn't think I'd find out that all of you – especially you - overrode her decision, even convinced Woolsey, and are the only reason I'm alive today. I'll have you know that Jeannie's not the only McKay who can squeeze information out of a sibling. I just wish I'd known it _before_ I started on my goddamn great make-believe romance with Keller. At least I got out in time before she shackled me to a fucking white picket fence in the wilds of Wisconsin.”

Rodney stopped his rant momentarily just to catch his breath. When he resumed speaking, his voice was gentle but determined, as if he were choosing the words for the very first time. “The only people who mean anything at all to me are Jeannie, Madison.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Okay, fine, that guy who insists on living with them - if I'm feeling in a really good mood, but don't push it. Teyla, TJ, John and you. Oh, Carson, too, when I sometimes manage to forget that he died, because that can really screw with my head. Woolsey, when he twists the IOA quietly around his finger which I have to admire as sly and, really, quite clever. Sometimes Radek. Or Miko. Because they're useful. And Atlantis. Though not always in that order. I don't go around holding grudges. Well, except for professional reasons, when dealing with morons who have no business being in academia."

When he'd finished with this variation on one of his familiar diatribes, he looked over at Ronon who had this odd smile on his face. “What? What's so amusing?”

“I'm not a moron, then?” One stern-looking eyebrow rose in emphasis, as the smile vanished.

“Amazingly enough, no you aren't.”

“Then, okay.”

Rodney groaned, scrubbing his face with his fingers. “Okay, what?”

Ronon shrugged. “Okay, you can help.”

The relief was evident in the forced exhale of Rodney's breath preceding his reply. “Finally. Well, come on; there's no time like the present to start.”

Rodney pulled a surprised but unresisting Ronon over to the bed and pushed him down in some semblance of relaxation before flopping next to him. He'd hooked up his iPod to external speakers and was now trying to find the right music while Ronon appeared to be fidgeting.

"So, is this where we kiss?"

Rodney groaned. "No, this is _not_ where we kiss. You don't start any scientific trial at the point of the desired result. You've got to put all the building blocks in place. Like mood. So, I'm trying to find some music I think you'd enjoy hearing."

Ronon shrugged. "Sheppard likes Johnny Cash."

Rodney sniffed, his voice tinged with disdain. "Well, of course, he would. That man has absolutely no taste in music. You'd think he grew up in a barn, like all the horses you said you saw when you visited Earth. I'm talking about _real_ music. Here. Just shut up and listen."

And then the air was filled with music. Just a piano, but the notes sparkled with military precision. Ronon smiled and started tapping his fingers in time with the quick beat. When it was finished, less than three minutes later, Ronon asked, "What was that? It sounded kind of military."

Rodney's eyes lit up. Aha – something else he could talk about with not a little authority, even though he was at risk of descending into predictable babbling mode. The words flew by. "Mozart's Piano Sonata in A, #11 ... Rondo alla Turca ... classical composers would take and reshape music from other countries and cultures. That's kind of frowned upon these days but, then, that was the only way to expose listeners to sounds they'd never heard before."

After he'd been talking for a few minutes, Rodney looked up suddenly to see Ronon smiling at him more broadly. "What? What did I say now?"

Ronon grinned. "Nothing. Well, lots. Nothing I really understood. You talk a lot."

Rodney tilted his head. "I talk a lot when I get excited. And, of any realm outside of science, music still excites me." He started hunting through his playlist again, humming softly. "Okay, now this is slower. More deliberate. A different composer, J.S. Bach. From an earlier era. In my mind, this is what happens when science and music are equals."

And then the room was filled with the sound of a piano once again, but so far removed from the effervescent ease of Mozart. This was calculated, intense, precise. Melody and counterpoint achieving unity.

Rodney noticed that Ronon appeared to be paying rapt attention and was gratified to see that the music he'd chosen had so captivated the other man.

When the piece ended, Ronon spoke. "Reminds me of you and Sheppard when you play chess. Just without the insults. Or cheating."

Rodney frowned, rubbing his neck absentmindedly. “Huh. I'd never thought of it that way. Still, don't go telling Sheppard. He'll put on airs.”

“Okay. 'Sides, then I'd have to explain why you're playing Earth music to me.”

Rodney picked up the theme. “And you'd rather others didn't know about your problem.”

Ronon's reply was quiet. “Not more than some already do.”

Rodney reached out and deliberately but gently touched Ronon's arm. “If it's of any comfort to you, I think your problem is already old news. People are more worried about what's been happening in Pegasus while we were gone.”

“Figured as much. Guess that's why Teyla and Sheppard have been busy trying to renew old alliances.”

Rodney's fingers smoothed the fabric under his fingers, feeling the strength of Ronon's forearm underneath. “And, while they're gone, we have the time for this.”

Ronon lifted Rodney's fingers away from his sleeve. But, instead of pushing Rodney's hand away, he clasped it in his broad palm.

Rodney looked at him, startled at Ronon's apparent ease. He wasn't accustomed to having to act so tentatively. Still, considering that he was applying scientific reasoning to human behaviour (which was never an _exact_ science), he felt Ronon was responding positively to touch. Even _his_ touch. So that was a very good first step.

While Rodney was mulling over his next move – and he so was not going to think of putting the moves on Ronon – his thoughts were interrupted.

“You were really into the playing.”

Rodney's ears turned pink. “Well, the pianist was famous for his interpretation of the Goldberg Variations. Glenn Gould was Canadian, though I never got to see him play live. He died when I was 14. But my mother saw him play several times so she always would turn the radio up when he was on the CBC.”

“You play?”

Now Rodney was close to squirming, though he was still holding Ronon's hand. “I tried. I think my mother was disappointed that her son wasn't about to become the _next Glenn Gould_. Then I had a crappy teacher tell me when I was twelve that there was no point in my playing, because I had no soul. So I stopped.”

Admitting failure was not something Rodney liked doing (as he shuddered, remembering his biggest failure in the galaxy), so the silence hung like an oppressive stiff velvet curtain – until Ronon broke through it.

“You should take it up again.”

Rodney's laugh was short and bitter. He waved the hand that wasn't attached to Ronon. “Hello. Pegasus galaxy. No piano stores anywhere.”

Ronon lifted one evocative eyebrow. Rodney always wondered how the man could say so much with facial expressions. “You're smart. Bound to figure something out.”

Rodney was silent for a minute, but his fingers were animated, twitching and snapping. “You know, I think it could be done. I could get an electronic piano shipped on the Daedalus. We could say it's for group morale.”

Ronon's laugh was bright ... encouraging. “Knew you'd find a way. Even if the only morale you improve is ours.”

Rodney's chest swelled with unexpected pride. “You know, I think I'd like to play again. But only for you. I like the fact that you seem to appreciate what I've played so far.”

“It's new. Different. Play something else.”

Rodney's heart skipped a beat as Ronon closed his eyes and drew Rodney's hand down to rest lightly on his chest. He fiddled around until he found something new and different again, just as Ronon had requested. Even though he was playing only dead white guys (and shouldn't that be the name of a Canadian band, just like _Barenaked Ladies_?), he was grateful that his mother had fostered respect for something ... _artistic_ in him.

He leaned against Ronon's body as his quarters were filled with Beethoven's Sixth Symphony, the Pastoral. It seemed to be the right choice. Rodney allowed himself to drift along with the lilting rhythms, feeling a sense of accomplishment that the first session with Ronon was off to a promising start.

He could only hope that subsequent meetings would further develop Ronon's comfort zone around him. And then there might be kissing, too. But he didn't want to jump ahead of himself. However much time Ronon needed, Rodney would follow his friend's lead.

::~::~::

Rodney couldn't stop laughing. Well, _not_ at Ronon's singing voice. But the fact remained that the Satedan had somehow gotten a hold of recordings of Gordon Lightfoot and was singing along with them. Rodney just knew that Chuck had to be behind this. Still, he had to admit to himself that Ronon had a lovely singing voice. When they'd talked about bringing a piano to Atlantis – and just why was it taking so long for that so-called morale-booster to be processed through channels – Rodney had offered to try to recreate some of Sateda's traditional instruments (or to at least see if any could be salvaged on other worlds). But Ronon had refused, had continued to talk about a “new life”; but that hadn't meant that he wasn't interested in developing further musically. He'd begun to sing, first humming along to some of Rodney's classical recordings. But this ... this was priceless. He could just imagine having a _small_ competition with Sheppard, Cash vs Lightfoot. He'd bet on Ronon's voice and ability all the way.

He still couldn't believe how much he had come to have in common with the Satedan, even if the points of commonality were slanted toward Earth culture. Spending nearly every evening with Ronon brought nothing but comfort to Rodney. Even though this was not a relationship, he could only wish that all his other relationships had been this easy to maintain. He didn't really want to think what that revealed about the relationships ... or about himself. But, as he had to remind himself constantly, this was not a relationship and the practice would soon come to an end. He would have achieved his objective of helping Ronon reintegrate into the kind of personal attachment he wanted. He should be up for a Humanitarian Nobel Prize if nothing else.

He had to stop from thinking about the looming end of this _thing_ with Ronon because it would just make him scowl – when he'd been laughing just a few seconds ago. No, Ronon deserved to have his undivided attention. So he joined in the refrain before the two of them ended up rolling around on his bed, sides splitting with laughter. Rodney would never have predicted that Canadian folk music could be the cause of such hilarity.

::~::~::

Epilogue:

Rodney was half-sitting up in bed. It wasn't late, but he'd felt ill-at-ease ever since he'd sent Ronon away, presumably to sweep Amelia off her feet and woo her with kisses. Though Rodney didn't want to think of Ronon kissing. Especially not anyone else but him. He especially didn't want to think of what would happen eventually _after_ the kissing.

He berated himself. He'd known, going into this, of the risk of falling for the man he often called Conan, though he thought of the term as more affectionate than insulting these days. But he'd still offered to help him. Because how could he not and call himself a reasonable facsimile of a human being. And to think he'd arrived at that conclusion without being eternally nagged by Jennifer (who seemed to have picked up and magnified that unfortunate habit from Jeannie). He allowed himself a brief acknowledgement of moral superiority.

Still, he could try to console himself for believing that altruism was its own reward. If it really had been (and just where was the empirical proof for something so ... wishy-washy), he would have been feeling a lot better about the entire matter.

But Ronon was off having a wonderful time and Rodney was here, alone in his quarters. Feeling too sorry for himself to even drown his sorrows in some of Radek's paint-thinner that impersonated vodka. Badly. For that he did have proof as, even in exile, he'd only drunk the good stuff. That never came in shades of mauve.

If he weren't so down, he could have hunted up Sheppard who was _finally_ back from mending Pegasus-style fences. But he didn't think he could even manufacture a glimmer of their traditional banter. So ... not an option either.

His head flopped back down upon his pillow. Oh, bad idea. Because there was still the faint aroma of Ronon: his leather, the oil he used on his hair, the soap on his body. Everything that combined to make Ronon unforgettable.

If Rodney had been practical, he would have stripped the bed immediately and remade it to rid himself of any sense memory of Ronon. If he'd been even more of a masochist, he would have rolled over, inhaling deeply while sliding one hand into his pants, trying to relieve the easiest ache.

But he did neither. He just lay there.

::~::~::

Rodney had dozed off while indulging in his morose ruminations. He shook off the mental cobwebs when his door chimed. He stumbled, barefoot, in the direction of the door and waved clumsily across the sensor.

The last person he expected stood in front of him, looking a little nervous. This was so not the Ronon he'd sent off earlier, full of confidence and eagerness to put Rodney's instructions to good use.

It took Rodney a moment to discern what else was different about Ronon's appearance. Oh, sure, he'd cleaned up for his date, apparently wearing the jeans, white shirt and jacket he'd had on when they'd rescued Jeannie. But that wasn't all.

"You ... you cut your hair." Rodney stared in astonishment at Ronon's sleeker profile, his hair chopped off, falling in glossy chin-length waves. He noticed how shorter strands curled at the temple, once they'd been released from the weight of the dreads. Rodney reached out, without conscious thought, then stopped himself before his fingers could touch. It wasn't his place, his right.

Ronon merely shrugged. "Felt it was time to be free of some of the old traditions. Can't rebuild Sateda. But I can make a new life here. With good people. Felt like a good time to start."

Rodney scowled, his frustration growing. The irritation was noticeable. He'd obviously missed the marked stare Ronon had given him when he'd uttered “good people”. "Well, what are you doing here? Why aren't you on your date with – with Amelia?” His voice took on a nervous tremor. “Or -- did something go wrong?"

Without a word, Ronon strode past Rodney and sat down on the bed. "Had some time to think when I left here. Why I was doing this. Why I wanted to kiss someone. To be connected. To be able to move beyond kissing. To be loved."

Rodney allowed the door to close. He tugged his desk chair over and slumped into it. "So what changed in those few hours?" Not that he really wanted to hear the answer. It couldn't be good. Hadn't he done enough? Did Ronon need for them to have sex, too? Because, with all the best intentions in the world, Rodney didn't think he could ever do that. Not with someone he cared about. And, as he'd already gone on a totally honest (aka self-masochistic) revelation, someone he _wanted_ , now more than ever.

Hadn't it already been enough that they'd both had their shirts off after the third or fourth evening of these so-called lessons. Because there was no way that Rodney could have denied the other man a way to ease his skin hunger, a condition with which Rodney himself was more than a little familiar. But he'd been so respectful to Ronon, _with_ Ronon's body. Because he'd known that Ronon wasn't ultimately interested in him and he didn't dare take advantage of the man's temporary neediness.

So Rodney had touched every time the opportunity presented itself, knowing that this was something ephemeral that would vanish if exposed to any scrutiny. And, each time he'd touched Ronon's back, he always ended it with a soft caress to the spot where he'd healed the scars from the tracking device.

Rodney felt as if his heart were being squeezed in a vice. He couldn't catch his breath. It just goddamn hurt to be in this position. To _love_ and to not be able to admit it. His head drooped; he didn't even want to look at Ronon, not with so much uncertainty in his head.

He startled and gasped when he felt strong but gentle fingers moving through his fine hair. He couldn't repress the shivers that surged through his body. Ronon's hand slid down to cradle his neck with tenderness as his other hand cupped his chin, raising it.

"Didn't have to go looking anywhere else. I'm already loved."

What? Who? This was crazy! Obviously Ronon couldn't mean ... except he seemed to, because he wouldn't be here, touching Rodney as if he were the most precious person alive.

"You love me." Ronon wasn't asking a question. He didn't need to.

"Yes, but...." Rodney really didn't know when to shut up. "I wouldn't have stood in your way. I wanted you to be happy."

Ronon maintained his hold on Rodney but drew him out of the chair and onto the bed so they ended up lying side by side. He continued to stroke Rodney's hair and pulled Rodney's quivering hand up to comb through his. Rodney sighed as he touched the beads entwined along a couple of thin braids and then allowed his fingers to clutch as much as he wanted. It was a heady feeling, to know that this was permitted. That Ronon desired him and accepted his love.

Ronon murmured, "Better if we're both happy, together."

Rodney let out something that closely resembled a squeak. His voice was at least an octave higher than normal. "Really? You mean like you and me _together_ ... together?"

Ronon punched Rodney lightly on his upraised arm. "Didn't know that _happy, together_ had another meaning. That some other Canadian thing you forgot to tell me about?"

“No, no, no. It's not some Canadian thing, but I just want to be sure you know what you're getting into.”

Ronon smirked, so Rodney smacked him on the head, using the hand that had been caressing hair mere seconds ago. “I'm serious. I'm not just talking about the mechanics of sex. You've always loved women. Are you sure about this? About me?”

Ronon's face turned serious. “Didn't start out that way. You were just helping me out. It felt like a bond of honour between two men. Like family. Then something changed. Didn't want to think about it. Kept coming here all those times, being reminded of how good you made me feel inside, but had to force myself to think only about 'Melia, how I hoped it would be with her. Until tonight. Couldn't go through with the big date. Felt I was cheating on you ... on us.”

Ronon tugged on Rodney's hand that had remained on his head after the smack. He lowered it to his lips, glancing warily for a moment into Rodney's eyes before kissing the palm.

Rodney's soft gasp lingered in the air. He kept staring at Ronon's mouth, at those lips that had just caressed his flesh. Not as an exercise. Nor practice. Rodney wasn't just there as a stand-in, an understudy to the big star.

Still, Rodney hesitated. Though he didn't exactly care whether anyone in Atlantis loathed him for any reason and disclosure of his apparently _deviant_ sexuality offending nameless morons wouldn't bother him, he was worried about Ronon's reputation when word of their new relationship would spread through Atlantis and beyond.

His voice was halting; he twisted his hand, twining his fingers with Ronon's. “You know ... I don't want to keep this a secret. Though, no, I'm not going to broadcast it, city-wide, from the Control Room.”

Rodney brought their joined hands to rest over his heart. “Eventually, I'll want people to know. Especially the people closest to me. I hope you do, too. But people will talk and it'll be impossible to keep it to just our friends. Some people won't care at all, others won't give a damn if we do our jobs the way we've always done them. But, Ronon, you know there will always be a few jerks around, their puny minds not able to embrace that love is love, no matter what the outer package is.”

He sighed. “At least you can handle yourself if anybody is stupid enough to take you on physically. I'd actually like to see someone try. And then limp off, crying, to complain to Woolsey.”

Rodney's uneasy speech was brought to an abrupt halt when Ronon slipped his hand from his and stood up. “Wait. What's wrong? Did I say something that's making you reconsider?”

Ronon smirked and began to remove his clothes, managing to slide both jacket and shirt off with ease. “You _still_ talk too much. Just tired. Let's go to bed.”

Rodney's mouth fell open. “You – you're staying the night?”

Ronon's fingers stilled on the fastenings of his jeans. “Thought we could do some real kissing for a change. Unless you don't want me to.”

Rodney's only answer was to scramble immediately out of bed and begin to strip. It was an easy task, as he was barefoot and had only worn loose pants and a t-shirt. He still couldn't believe he was being given this chance at something so amazing. Though he and Ronon had met every evening and their quasi-intimacy had progressed, sleeping together was something new. Well, okay, there had been _napping_. But, when Rodney had woken up later, the spot next to him would be empty. Without fail.

Ronon beamed as he saw more of Rodney's pale flesh being revealed and caught up quickly. In a few moments there was nothing between the two men but skin.

The first touch was of hands clasping.

The second touch was of mouths, determined yet hesitant. To Rodney, it felt as if they had never kissed before. And, really, they hadn't. Not like this. Belonging had meant everything to Ronon. And, now, it meant everything to Rodney as well.

The third touch was an affirmation.  
Of life.

Shared.  
Between two men.  
Ronon.  
And Rodney.

Finding completion.  
Together.  
In love.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the SGA characters. They are the property of their creators and copyright holders. This is a work of fiction and not for profit.  
> Word count: 5,968 words (via two other sources)


End file.
